


One man, Four very different bodies

by tallgiraffelady



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 10, 11 - Freeform, 12, 9, Fluff and Angst, Scars/Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallgiraffelady/pseuds/tallgiraffelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got really sad really quickly on this don't really know why but hope you like - just a little scars/tattoos fic about the different regenerations of the doctors</p>
            </blockquote>





	One man, Four very different bodies

Nine. Nine didn't have many scars, not on the outside anyway. He'd run into danger so many times to save others but he never seemed to get hurt. There was the one scar of course, but he wasn't ready to talk about that. Not yet. It was something left from a past regeneration that he wasn't ready to remember but he knew he couldn't forget. He hoped that later, maybe much later he'd be able to remember and it wouldn't hurt too much. 

The tattoos though, God they were something. A banana on his ankle, a joke shared with him and Rose Tyler, the first time he felt he'd found a friend again. A few words. Spe, the Latin for hope on his forearm as a reminder to keep smiling and to keep running because he knew he had to. He couldn't stop doing either yet and he wanted to make the most of what he had. He wanted to make it great. Every last second of every decade in every minute of every year there ever was. 

 

Ten. Ten had scars. So many scars because he was the one who wanted to regret everything he'd done. On that day that he wanted so badly to forget and couldn't. It wasn't one scar for every child on Gallifrey because he would have regenerated ten times over before he even got close but he wished it could be. So he could repent properly. But that was the bad days. On the good days he'd get scars for silly, stupid things. Like blisters that never healed because he kept on wearing his converse without socks as he ran. And the nick on his face where Donna had slapped him so hard for being 'a fucking spaceman' at the wrong time. 

He didn't have many tattoos- just some things to serve as reminders. An M on the inside of one wrist and a D on the other. Reminders of the ones he'd let down, reminders to not be so careless with others next time. And then, of course, the rose. In between his two hearts, always with him, as he drew breath every single day. 

Eleven. His scars were so many and so small because he was so clumsy. A drunk giraffe, you might say. He fell over tables, dropped knives on his feet, electrocuted himself and cut himself shaving as he pretended he needed to shave. Hundreds of scars but not like the scars of his predecessor. He said he didn't need reminders of what he'd lost because he could always remember by himself but, maybe he just didn't want reminding. If 10 was the one who regretted then 11 was the one who tried to forget. But he never could. His favourite scar (as he was quite fond of them) was the one on the back of his right hand. It was the same shape as the crack that had caused the second Big Bang, the crack that had taken Rory. But now, because of him, it was gone and it was only remembered by a faint white line, stretching from his thumb to his pinkie. It also meant that anytime someone asked him: 'How well do you know the universe?', he could reply, 'Like the back of my hand.' 

He had a few tattoos dotted here and there. Most of them were impulsive decisions: a bow tie on his foot, a fez on his ribcage, a number 11 behind his ear. But there were two that stood out. The first was a tally count on his forearm. It always seemed to keep growing and once, when the Doctor came calling, Amy saw his back was slightly bent and the count had doubled. She never asked him about it but he'd rub his arm absentmindedly and turn away when she mentioned places or people they'd lost. She never knew that her and Rory would be the last tallies before he decided to stop counting. When they were lost, he shut off some compartment of his emotions and never reopened it. Just like the lines, there was another tattoo that Clara never asked him about. A stream of water down his back, that shone in a way that only a tattoo done on another planet can. A stream of water for the Ponds: Amy and Rory, and for their daughter, his River Song. This was the tattoo that Clara thought of when she saw him screaming at Gods and monsters and unfathomable beings. Screaming about what he'd seen and how much he'd seen and how he'd seen everything, almost everything, completely alone. Because of what he was. Because he was the last one left. 

Twelve. Even though he was the oldest, he hadn't lived long enough in this body to get many scars. He had plenty of blisters from playing guitar but they always passed so he didn't count them. The only real scar was the one he'd given himself- by accident, in a moment of such rage that even he'd been scared. He'd grabbed his face, pulling at his hair, drawing blood because they wouldn't understand what they were doing. Because they wouldn't listen to him and they couldn't see what they were doing. Because he'd seen war too many times, in every body he'd been in, and he knew that this would be like every other time. That time they listened to him. After he begged them. But he knew he couldn't always be there and that was what made him cry. One more old man crying for all that he'd seen. 

Only one tattoo. Just one and he couldn't even properly explain it. A name, typed in nondescript font, completely ordinary. Except he couldn't remember, not even at all, why he'd had the name Clara etched onto his skin. He hoped he'd find out one day.


End file.
